


In Red And White

by Murreleteer



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: D/s conveyed almost entirely through pronouns, Dom/sub, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Language Kink, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5201627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murreleteer/pseuds/Murreleteer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: <i>Beshalar disapproves of himself more than he disapproves of anyone else. Even he can't live up to his own impossible standards. </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>He has an arrangement with Cala: when Beshalar feels that he has been unworthy of his role of late, Cala takes him somewhere private and administers a spanking, with Beshalar's tunic pulled up and his smallclothes pulled down. While Cala is spanking Beshalar, he murmurs words of gentle admonishment. But the spanking starts off mild and gets quite harsh, until Beshalar is squirming and crying.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In Red And White

**Author's Note:**

> Kinkmeme fill for [tge_kink](http://tge-kink.dreamwidth.org/678.html?thread=7846#cmt7846). Many thanks to the kind anons who prompted, encouraged, and beta-read this fic. 
> 
> I wrote part of this at a jazz club while waiting for the band to come on. :-)

If Beshelar had not been prevailed upon the previous evening to attend the farewell party for a fellow soldier, now promoted to captain and bent on celebration in an altogether juvenile fashion, he would have been fine. 

As a rule Beshelar took his duties as first nohecharis to His Serenity Edrehasivar VII extremely seriously, and as a rule this included ensuring that he got sufficient sleep to be alert when he went on shift. But he owed a great deal to Belu Tacharezh, had come up with him through the ranks, and—not that he would have admitted to it—was rather fond of him besides. And so he went to the party.

Twelve hours later, he was standing ramrod-straight behind His Serenity's seat in the Corazhas, fighting off sleep, and berating himself. The Corazhas was extraordinarily _boring_ today, and the worst of it was that no one else of His Serenity's household seemed to think so. To be sure, the emperor looked somewhat worried (though not significantly more so than usual), but Mer Aisava was in fine form, passing the appropriate documents to His Serenity and giving his opinion without hesitation when called upon. Cala Athmaza looked interested, but then Cala could be interested in a truly incredible variety of things, from the motion of snails on a garden leaf to the philosophical implications of free will. 

Beshelar, however, was struggling to keep his eyes open. He had not drunk overmuch at Belu's party, but he _had_ seen his friend home at the end of the evening—or rather, at five hours past midnight. It was not that he had never pulled double shifts before, even in the last few months; he was a soldier, and life with His Serenity demanded constant flexibility. But, somehow, knowing that Belu was being posted to Thu-Athamar and would not return for at least two years had taken more out of him than he expected. 

And thus Beshelar committed his first sin. He blinked. Or, well, no. He opened his eyes and realized with mounting horror that he had shut them—and had no idea for how long. 

Cala was not staring at him with a worried frown, and His Serenity had noticed nothing amiss. Beshelar could not have been properly asleep on his feet (could he?), for he had not slumped, but remained in his accustomed upright posture. The clock on the wall seemed to have stood entirely still since the last time he had glanced at it. But he had let his attention wander, and _anything_ might have happened to the emperor while he was distracted. 

He blinked to clear his eyes, squared his shoulders, and went back to scanning the assembled secretaries and courtiers for any sign of threat, guilt settling in his stomach like a lead weight. 

As the session of the Corazhas drew to a close in a confusion of paper and swirling robes, Beshelar told himself that it was not terribly likely he had missed a threat to His Serenity's safety. Impropriety loomed, as always, but it was not as if he could have done anything about the secretary of Pashavar's who had interrupted Csevet so rudely, either. But none of this did anything to assuage his conscience. If the emperor could not depend upon his first nohecharei at all times, upon whom could he depend?

All the way back to the Alcethmeret he attempted to master his guilt. His Serenity needed Beshelar at his best, and worrying over a lapse in judgment was not what was required. 

"But Serenity, if the schools—" Csevet was saying as they achieved the Tortoise Room. 

"We are entirely in favour of the plan," said His Serenity, falling into a seat by the fire. "But we do not think the Witness for the Universities and the Witness for the Treasury are likely to agree on this matter any time soon." 

Beshelar took up his place by the door, and looked over at Cala, who seemed just as fascinated by the question of funding schools for the children of Cetho's working men as he had while the Corazhas was in session. Beshelar cared not. He had done well enough for himself in the army, and while he was not against education in principle, he did not see why endless arguments on the subject were necessary. 

And so Beshelar—tired, excluded from the conversation, and even more bored than before—failed a second time. He sighed. 

He sighed loudly enough that His Serenity glanced over at him to see if he were all right. Immediately Beshelar pulled himself up and stared straight ahead, his face sober and bland as befitted parade rest. His Serenity said nothing, merely turned back to Csevet and asked what was next on his agenda. 

Beshelar kept his face calm and his ears up, but internally he was seething at himself. Not only inattentive, but rude! Unquestionably, flagrantly inappropriate. 

His Serenity had tea, and Beshelar let himself be calmed by the routine. Perhaps he watched little Isheian with a more hawklike eye than she deserved, as if that might make up for his inattention earlier. But really, it was like spot-checks in the army, was it not? Why, when he and Belu had been first-year cadets...

Thoughts of Belu brought on thoughts of the party last night. Thoughts of Isheian drew his attention to the roaring fire she had set in the grate. The room was growing slightly too warm. Thoughts of spot-checks made him glance at Cala again, Cala and his shabby blue maza's robe, Cala who seemed preternaturally awake and engaged even as the sun crept down toward the horizon. 

Beshelar, to his eternal shame, _yawned_. 

His ears flicked in humiliation as he snapped his jaw shut. By some luck far greater than he deserved, Cala was bending over the table with Csevet and His Serenity, having been drawn into a discussion on revitalizing the couriers' office, and absolutely none of them had noticed the yawn. 

It was not so easy for Beshelar to ignore his own wrongdoings. Miserably, he clasped his hands behind his back and counted down the minutes until Kiru and Telimezh arrived to take their shift. He did not think Telimezh noted anything out of the ordinary when they conferred briefly in the doorway, but he could not be sure. And then he was out in the hallway with Cala, blessedly alone except for his fellow nohecharis. 

"Cala," he said, hurrying to catch up with the maza's long, gangling stride. Then, some of his distress finding its way into his voice, "Cala. Wait." 

Cala turned half toward him, shoving his eyeglasses up his long nose. "What? We have—" 

Beshelar interrupted him. It was another impropriety to add to his tally. "You must have noticed that we have not been attentive today as we ought." 

Cala studied him. Beshelar did not know what it was that gave him away, but after a moment the maza's eyes widened in understanding. Cala's ears twitched and he stopped looking as if he wished to be about some other business. A hot flush of embarrassment crept up Beshelar's neck. He _hated_ having to activate this arrangement, but the relief afterward was so great...

Cala took one step closer to Beshelar. He was still as shabby as ever, but the few inches of height he had on Beshelar were suddenly apparent as they were not when he was hunched over paperwork with Csevet. 

"Dost need our hand?" he said.

The sudden drop into the second-person familiar made Beshelar's stomach twist. When they had started this arrangement months ago, it had been, "If you need to be punished, Lieutenant Beshelar, we can provide something suitable," but now—now Cala seemed to _like_ it, and that was more disconcerting than all the rest. 

He nodded jerkily. "Yes. We have—I have—been remiss in my duties." He raised his chin, defying Cala to mock him. "Please." 

But Cala said only, "Go to the storage room and wait," turned on his heel, and strode down a side corridor. 

They had discovered the convenient small room off the kitchens some time ago, and Beshelar knew the servants' passages well enough to find his way there without being seen. It was small, and slightly dusty, and it smelled of flour and dried maize. What it lacked in sumptuousness it made up for in both obscurity and privacy: it had a locking door. As Beshelar slipped into the room and lit the lamp inside, he could hear the clatter of the kitchen at the other end of the passageway, loud enough to cover any cries he might make. 

He took off his sword-belt and stood, breathing slowly and deliberately, back against the wall, until the door creaked open and Cala came in. Cala nodded briefly as he turned the locking bolt, taking in the room and Beshelar's uneasy silence, and then took a seat on one of the giant bags of flour. It was a steady and comfortable seat, which was better than what could be said for Beshelar's in the near future. 

Cala pushed his glasses up his nose again. He looked Beshelar up and down in an assessing fashion he must have learned from the Adremaza, and he folded his hands in his lap. His pale eyes seemed to bore into Beshelar. "What hast thou to say for thyself?" 

Beshelar swallowed. He clenched his hands at his sides and willed himself to answer. It was always so difficult at first, even though he was the one who had asked for it. "We have been unworthy of our position," he muttered. 

"Look at us," said Cala calmly. Relentlessly. "Tell us what thou hast done." 

Still the formal pronoun for himself, the intimate one for Beshelar—dachenmaza to supplicant, officer to new recruit. As though he had the right to pass judgment on Beshelar's deeds.

There was only so long he could hold out against Cala's gentle gaze. "I fell asleep in the Corazhas!" he blurted. 

Cala's ears flicked but he neither laughed nor frowned. "We think that unlikely," he said. 

Beshelar's ears were dipping low in mortification. "It is true. I did not keep watch. I did not—I could not seem to keep my mind on matters today. I..." It was difficult to meet Cala's eyes. "I comported myself like an untrained youth without self-control. I am unworthy to stand beside you and defend His Serenity." 

Cala considered him for long moments while Beshelar stewed in self-recrimination. "That is not for thee to say. Come here." 

Beshelar crossed the room slowly, his skin already tingling. He did not need to be told what to do. Cala's seat was not so high off the floor, and Beshelar knelt beside him and laid himself across Cala's bony knees. Then, the toes of his boots pushing against the floor, he shoved himself awkwardly forward until his backside was in the centre of Cala's lap. His pulse began to pound in his ears, and not only because his head was so near the floor. 

Cala's hands were efficient as he rucked up Beshelar's tabard and shirt and tucked them high up his back. Beshelar's thighs tensed and he bit the inside of his mouth. This was ridiculous. He was twice Cala's weight, with more muscle in one arm than the gawky maza had in his entire body. He should not feel so...overpowered. 

And then Cala was stripping down his hose and smallclothes, inexorably baring him from the top of his clenching buttocks to the middle of his thighs. And Beshelar was allowing him to do it—was even raising his hips to aid him. The flush that had been rising up his chest turned his face scarlet, and he was glad to be able to hide his flaming cheeks in the almost-privacy of the skirts of Cala's blue robes. And when he settled back across Cala's knees, the flush became a fire, because his cock was pressed very firmly between his stomach and Cala's upper leg. He could feel Cala's robe dragging against it and fought the urge to squirm. 

He had not thought about this part when he had first made the arrangement with his partner. Even now there was uncertainty. Sometimes, after it was all over—when Beshelar's arse was red and shiny and his face wet from weeping—Cala would...touch him. Sometimes he would not, and that was worse, because it meant he would inevitably find himself alone in some small corner of the Alcethmeret, abusing himself to the thought of how his fellow nohecharis _might_ touch him. A more inappropriate thing he could scarcely think of. 

He did not touch Cala; but he knew Cala grew hard as well, and that was fuel for fantasies Beshelar would not admit even under torture. 

"Deret Beshelar," said Cala in a low murmur, "thou shouldst not let thy mind wander." And between one breath and the next his hand came down on Beshelar's buttocks. 

It was the shock of contact, at first, that made Beshelar suck in air through his teeth. His arse was warm where Cala had struck him, but it did not hurt. Not really. Then Cala's hand came down again in the exact same spot, and he shivered at the deepening sting. Then a smack to the other cheek, and back again. He flinched forward instinctively when Cala hit him, and that made his arse arch up higher in the air, like some wanton camp-follower advertising for custom. 

It was not dignified, it was not proper, but Beshelar's body didn't seem to care. There was something primal in his reactions to being bent over Cala's knee and spanked. Each stroke made him shudder, made the blood rush anew to his ears. _If His Serenity could see thee now,_ he thought, _with thy clothing askew and thy backside bared. He would want nothing to do with thee._

Cala had narrow hands for a man, but that only made each impact sharper and more concentrated. He was hitting harder now, making Beshelar clench his jaw so as not to make a sound, and he was working his way methodically across his arse, from the dip at the base of his spine to the round, muscular cheeks and the tender upper thighs. A certain soreness was beginning to pervade Beshelar's lower half, but Cala did not let up.

"Shouldst not lose thy focus," he said, striking the lower curve of Beshelar's arse hard enough to wrench a sob from him. "Shouldst _not_ ," with an even harder crack to the same spot, "shouldst not _slouch_ , Beshelar."

Beshelar wanted to protest that he had never slouched in his life, but Cala's blows were coming too quickly now for him to do more than gasp and writhe and dig his toes into the floorboards.

"Edrehasivar depends upon thee," said Cala, still in that almost soothing tone, while his hands left hot marks of pain behind them. "Wouldst have it said that the first nohecharis gives Serenity half-hearted service?"

"No," gasped Beshelar, the cry wrung unwitting from his throat. That his failure should bring shame upon His Serenity and Cala as well was not to be borne. His whole arse was burning now, and he wanted to tell Cala to stop, but his pride prevented him. He clenched his buttocks but it only made the blows worse.

"Art not a foolish boy," said Cala with the faintest air of disapproval. "Shouldst not behave like one." Each blow was a hot coal now, and Beshelar squirmed, trying to get away from Cala's cruel hands. Cala threw an arm across his waist and held him down.

The palms of Beshelar's hands were flat against the oak floor, and they were the only part of him that was cool. He bucked under the unrelenting strokes, each impact worse than the last. Yet still he strangled each incipient cry before his treacherous mouth could give voice to it.

Cala's hands stilled, then began soothingly massaging Beshelar's sore flesh. His long scholarly fingers curved over the tense contours of Beshelar's cheeks, stroked firmly down the unspanked sides of his hips, rubbed gently at the burning skin of his buttocks and thighs. Beshelar, panting like a bellows, felt his shoulders sag and his legs go limp under the calming touch.

On the next pass, the tips of Cala's fingers slid down between the hot, stinging swells of Beshelar's cheeks, so briefly that he had almost no time to be shocked. The intimacy of the gesture made his insides twist. Surely Cala could not mean _that_. But Cala _could_ , if he liked, Cala could take him over his knee, could strip him, could paddle him until sitting down would make him hiss pained breaths between his teeth. Cala could spank him raw and if—Beshelar let the tiniest groan slip between his lips—if he was in a gracious mood Cala could wrap his hand around Beshelar's cock and relieve its straining need.

But he had no time to consider the humiliation of Cala's hands on his most intimate places—no time to imagine Cala spreading his cheeks and touching him there with purpose, no time to think on how his cock did in fact perversely strain and swell—for the comforting massage gave way to a resounding crack across his right arse cheek. Beshelar jerked forward in a powerful spasm, a low moan torn from him. It was five times worse to be struck now than before the gentle petting. Cala hit him again, a solid thwack against skin already reddened and sore. Tears stung Beshelar's eyes.

It took him several moments to be able to focus on Cala's voice. "We think it...uncharacteristic of thee," Cala was saying in an even, pleasant voice, while his hands rained down fire upon Beshelar's abused arse, "to carouse all night as if thou hadst no duties." 

Beshelar cried out, squirming hard to escape the punishment. How could a gentle maza's hands be so scalding, so pitiless? And how had Cala known he had been gone? Beshelar was almost certain he had not waked his partner when he had crept into bed at dawn. Had been sure, too, that it mattered not a whit to Cala where he went after-hours and with whom.

His hips rose off Cala's lap as he tried to evade the painful blows to his red-hot arse. Cala flattened his free hand on his back and pushed him down, hard, and the movement made Beshelar's cock grind roughly against the robe above Cala's knee. He did not recognize the whimper he heard as having come from his own throat until Cala struck him again with the flat of his hand and he made the same sound, louder. 

"Dost think we care not what thou choosest to do?" Cala's voice was ever so slightly hoarse, and Beshelar did not understand why that should be. Cala was not the one with his leggings around his knees and his scarlet arse exposed to the air, humping someone else's knee. Cala was not the one sobbing for breath. But Cala did not deserve to be, Cala did not—

"We watch thee," said Cala. The next slap came down so hard that Beshelar saw stars behind his eyes. He made a bestial sound. The next blow made him swear aloud—and, worse, made him shove his hips forward for that sweet, fleeting contact with Cala's leg between flashes of pain. "If wilt play the fool, wilt _sigh_ and _droop_ and _yawn_ —" Each word was punctuated by a spank so hard that Beshelar howled. 

"We will see thee," said Cala. 

It should not have been arousing, that thought of Cala's eyes upon him. It should not have made his balls ache and his hips jerk, should not have made him rut against the blue-clad knee beneath him at the thought that every time Cala saw him, Cala must also remember him like this. Each time they stood behind Edrehasivar in the Corazhas or in the Alcethmeret, Cala must see him like this—snivelling, bare-arsed, hard-cocked, undignified and leaking wretchedly all over Cala's robe. 

The tips of Cala's fingers caught the back of Beshelar's naked balls as his hand came down, and Beshelar had never been more grateful for the clamor of the kitchens. He turned his head and stuffed the fabric of his sleeve into his mouth as the first notes of his helpless shout echoed around the small room. He did not know if Cala had done it on purpose, and he could not care, not over the strange and visceral pain.

Then Cala's hand was cupping his balls tenderly, and that was almost worse. It made him rock his hips again, into the space between folds of Cala's robe that his erection had carved out for itself. Shame flooded his face, and he tried to push himself off the maza's lap and twist away. But Cala was too fast. His knee moved, and suddenly Beshelar's prick was swinging free. His chest was still supported by Cala's knees, and his arse was still high in the air, but his cock and balls were—Cala was—

"Shouldst be our companion," said Cala, and the hand that had been so cruelly spanking Beshelar's flaming arse wrapped around his cock in an incredible grip. "Shouldst aid us as hast been thy wont—" 

Beshelar moaned helplessly. Without Cala's robe to grind against, and with Cala's other arm pinning his torso down with that surprising wiry strength, he was at Cala's mercy. He could shove himself forward into the hand around his member but he couldn't get very far. 

"To defend—His Serenity—" Cala amended, but Beshelar was past paying mind to the words he spoke. There was only the tight, slick slide of Cala's thin hand on his throbbing prick, the still-burning pain in his arse, and the tightening in his balls. 

"Wilt do better?" said Cala, with an obscene twist of his hand down Beshelar's shaft, a delicious, filthy swirl of his palm over the dripping tip of his cock. 

"Oh—yes—yes, Cala. Please, Cala," and it was far, far too much, that he could be reduced to this, to begging for a hand on his prick in a storage room, with his hose around his knees and tears on his face. 

" _Good_ ," said Cala, and his grip tightened and his strokes grew faster. Beshelar bit down hard on his sleeve and drove his hips down into Cala's hand. This was pleasure as rough and immediate as anything in a soldier's barracks. It spiralled tighter and tighter in his belly, and then Cala moved his free hand and pinched him sharply on his reddened arse. He gulped air, spasmed, and gave a muffled shout, hot jets of his fluids erupting all over Cala's hand.

He slumped to the floor, sliding back on his heels until only his forehead rested against Cala's knee. He stifled a moan as his muscles stretched the bruised skin of his arse. He could smell himself on Cala's shabby robes. The little room was silent except for their breathing, and Cala's hand was around the back of his neck, almost too tight for comfort and sticky with Beshelar's spend. 

"Are you well?" said Cala after some moments. He moved his hand, wiped it surreptitiously on his robe. It made Beshelar's head hurt to wonder how he would clean it before tomorrow's shift, so instead he tugged his hose up over his hot, tender arse and softening cock, wincing, and pushed himself to his feet.

"As well as possible," he said gruffly. He felt filthy and sticky, and tears were making tracks in the corn-dust on his face, but he no longer felt restless and troubled. "Thank you," he said to Cala, and Cala cast his gaze aside as Beshelar wiped his face with his sleeve. 

"We are glad you came to us," said Cala, as he always did. 

The formal pronoun felt strange in Beshelar's ears. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. His eyes settled on Cala, an unassuming long-limbed maza in besmirched robes, sitting on a bag of flour and looking up at him through pale, near-sighted eyes.

Indeed, Cala was looking up at him and not rising to his feet as he might have done. Beshelar found himself following the lines of Cala's dishevelled robes down past his waist, but he could not tell if his guess was right and Cala was aroused.

"May we—is there aught that I may do to ease thee, Cala?" 

Cala shook his head, but Beshelar could see that one hand was fisted in a fold of his robes. "I thank thee. But no." Cala's cheeks were tinged a pale pink, and there was that in his voice that made Beshelar think, _Dost ask again next time, and he may say yes._

Almost, almost he repeated the question. He remembered the look on Cala's face when he had asked to be spanked, remembered Cala's _We will see thee_ , and his heart gave a peculiar lurch in his chest. But he could not, quite, make his mouth form the words.

It struck him as he turned away that it was not impropriety that kept him from it. It was only that he had not the courage to face the unknown. He bent stiffly to pick up his sword belt, already cursing himself for a coward. 

"Beshelar," said Cala, voice ever so slightly tinged with uncertainty. Beshelar stopped with his outstretched hand on the door. 

"Yes?" 

"Wilt be at home when I return?" A faint rasp of cloth against cloth, as though Cala shifted in his seat. 

Beshelar had a sudden vision of Cala sprawled across his bunk in their shared quarters, faded robes hitched up around his waist, knee bent and fist tight around a wet, red cock. He swallowed, throat suddenly tight. 

"I am always at home to you," he said. 

The sharp hitch in Cala's breath was louder than the pounding of blood in his own ears. 

"Wait for us," Cala said.

And Beshelar said, "Yes."


End file.
